Immortals
by dreams of infinities
Summary: A billionaire. A scientist with an anger disorder. An amnesiac. A man banished from his home. Two government agents. When a bomb goes off in a New York bank, six people are trapped under the rubble. (Real World AU. Whump, angst, friendship ... that kind of thing.)
1. this is it (the apocalypse)

**A/N:** So I'm really not sure about this story. My writing inspiration came back in a spectacular fashion, and this is what it came up with, so ... any reviews are much appreciated, I guess.

Thanks.

* * *

Tony lifts his head weakly. His ears are ringing and his eyes blearily. His throat is dry and sore from the smoke and dust, and he tries to cough. It _hurts_.

"Help," he calls out painfully. "Over ... here ..."

He trails off as he stares into the lifeless eyes of his bodyguard. The bodyguard he can't even remember the _name_ of. Tony feels a twinge of guilt, but he's pretty sure he's going into shock or something because he's shaking all over and who knows where he could be bleeding and _oh God he can't move_. Desperately trying to even out his breathing, he twitches his toes slowly and lets out a sigh of relief. Then he realises that he can't move because there is a large human on top of him. Given the circumstances, probably a dead one.

A shudder of revulsion travels through his body and he scrambles out as fast as he can (given the size of the person on top of him, not particularly fast). Then, cursing the lack of light, he remembers his phone and snatches it out of his pocket. He turns it on. The screen is smashed beyond recognition, but by some miracle manages to light up. The first thing he does is turn on the torch, and then he tries to make an emergency call.

The screen flickers and dies, but the torch stays on. "Best thing that's happened all day," he mutters, and shines it into the face of the person who was on top of him. He is blond, and somewhat attractive, Tony admits begrudgingly, and he's ... coughing. And blinking in the sudden light. Tony yelps and jumps back, dropping his phone. "What the hell!"

"Uh ... ow," the guy coughs out, dragging himself into a sitting position. "Ah ... "

"You're - you're not dead," Tony says shakily.

"Well," he gasps, "I don't think so. I'm Steve Rogers. Are you okay?"

"Tony. Stark. And yes."

They shook filthy hands. The whole thing was bizarrely surreal.

"Anyone else in here?"

 _Shit._ He hasn't thought of that.

A sense of foreboding rises in his chest as he shines the torch around. There is someone spread-eagled in the centre of the space, two unconscious but apparently still breathing figures in a corner and one more person towards the right.

"What happened?" he asked quietly.

"You don't remember?" Steve asks, sounding somewhat concerned.

"I - uh, bomb."

Fragments start to come back to him now.

They are in a bank. Definitely a bank.

He was meeting with Bruce Banner, who'd done some interesting work on gamma radiation, and was showing him something in his bank vault.

There was a guy - it must have been Steve - putting something in a safety deposit box next door as well, and some nosy British guy who probably wasn't meant to be there but was just "having a look around".

They were just about to enter the vault when a cry of _bomb_ came from upstairs, followed by a fair amount of screaming, and then Steve started yelling something about getting in the vault, his bodyguard shoved him in, some others ran in as well, and finally a man and woman Tony did not recognise leapt in too, right before they all went flying into darkness.

"I remember," he whispers, and then they both stand up and go to see if anyone else is alive.

"How'd this vault survive?" Steve asks, looking at the remarkably intact walls.

"I made it bombproof," Tony says vaguely, and leans over Dr. Banner, slapping him gently on the cheek. His eyes fly open.

"There's a bomb."

"We gathered," says Tony, helping him to his feet.

"Ah!" a deep, British voice shouts, and they both turn to see a shape leap up from the floor, straight into Steve's nose. Steve staggers away, clutching it. In the dim torchlight, Steve thinks he sees blood.

Bruce goes towards him, frowning, but Steve waves him off. "It's fine," he says thickly.

Tony moves towards toward the final two shapes in the corner. Another torch flicks on as he reaches them, and he can see that one of the figures is a red haired woman with a nasty looking gash on her temple, the other a man whose breaths are alarmingly fast and shallow. He crouches by the woman to check her pulse, his fingers pressing on her neck.

The next thing he knows, she has him in a tight headlock. "Whoa," Steve says. "Calm down. He isn't here to hurt you."

She drops him. He decides that now might be a good time to lie very still on the floor and try to breathe.

But she's already distracted. "Clint?" she says softly, bending down and shaking the guy who was with her. "Clint, come on. Wake up. Come on. You need to - "

"Go fu - _ow!_ Shit, Nat!" he cried out as she started pressing various areas of his torso, apparently checking for damage.

"I'm pretty sure you have a couple of broken ribs," she murmured, ignoring him. "Anyone here have medical experience?"

"Ow, no, that hurts ... _Nat_ ..."

"Call it payback for the time you - " she seems to stop herself. Tony wonders if things like this happen to them a lot. From the way she is disregarding her head injury, either she hasn't noticed because she's distracted or they do happen a lot. And since there is blood dripping into her eye and down her cheek, he can't see how she can have not noticed.

She stands and puts her hands under each of Clint's arms. "This will hurt," she warns, and then hoists him up to a sitting position against the wall. His eyes are closed and Tony can see the muscles in his jaw working.

"They're pretty serious, I'd say."

"Damn right they are." He opens his eyes. "Who are all these people?"

"Uh," she gestures randomly. "I'm pretty sure that guy's called Steve. And ... "

"Tony Stark," says Tony. He's a little surprised that's nobody's recognised him, to be honest.

"The bomb guy?" Clint wheezes.

They all look at him. "I prefer scientific and technological genius," he says. "But I guess that works too."

"Bruce Banner."

"Call me Thor," the British guy says, puffing out his chest.

"Your name is _Thor._ " Nat raises an eyebrow. "As in, the Norse God? Thor."

Thor shrugs. "That's what they call me."

"Because you're godly?" Tony can't help but snicker.

"And you guys?"

"My name's ... Natalie. Natalie Rushman. And this is Clint. Clint, uh, Barron."

Tony turns to Steve, who has been silent, but he's blinking, looking bewildered. "Do - do you know Stark Industries?" he whispers, eyes closed.

"I _run_ Stark Industries."

"And - and they make bombs."

"Yes," Tony says, not sure where this is going.

"Bombs they use in ... Afghanistan?"

"You served?" Natalie asks.

"Apparently. I - I mean, yes," he stammers. Everyone is staring at him now, and he is reddening. "Sorry. Carry on."

Clint distracts them at that moment by having a coughing fit - a bad one. Every breath he takes is followed by a series of coughs which wrack his entire body. "Whoa, whoa," says Natalie, kneeling beside him. "Don't try and hold it in. You'll only give yourself a chest infection. Deep breaths. Yes, it hurts like shit. Okay, now let go of my wrist. You're cutting off. The circulation. _Clint._ " She slaps his arm and he releases her hand. She takes another look around. "Was that a no to the medical experience?"

" _Stark_ ," mutters Steve again. " _Stark._ "

"I feel like I'm missing something," Tony says. "Anyone else know what he's going on about?"

But Bruce touches Steve's arm. "Do you need to sit down?" he asks.

"Uh - "

Apparently Steve's legs decide that yes, he does need to sit down, because they start shaking and then eventually give out. He collapses straight into Thor, who does not look like the weight of a fully grown, muscular male particularly bothers him, and slides down his body into a sitting position at his feet before Thor really has time to react. Then he peels up his shirt, suddenly looking white.

"Well, shit," breathes Clint, and they all gaze in horror at the bloodied mess that was apparently once Steve's stomach.

* * *

Steve's mind is reeling. For the first time since his accident two years ago, he is remembering something. And not flashes of his mother, or his childhood, or school or college. Something _important_. Something to do with why he forgot.

A bomb. That's what he remembers. A bomb.

But also a friend. A friend whose name, for whatever reason, is Bucky. And him and Bucky are _tight_. Tight enough that Bucky keeps nudging him back, away from the bomb, so that if by some incredibly unlikely twist of fate it goes off, Steve has a better chance of survival.

It all comes in flashes.

The name _Stark_. He remembers that.

And the sudden realisation that this bomb was not a dud.

Panic. On everyone's faces.

Everyone running -

Steve's fastest -

He's always been fastest.

Something slamming into his body so hard he is thrown into the air.

He falls -

The bomb flashes up in his mind again, the white letters of Tony's name glowing.

Then he hits the ground.

* * *

Almost immediately after Steve Rogers sits down and pulls up his top, his eyes roll up into the back of his head and he slumps against Thor's legs again. Thor blinks, then stretches him out so he is lying flat on his back. Bruce Banner is already hovering over him, trying to work out what to do.

Clint Barron is still staring, but now his friend Natalie has turned back to him and is talking to him in a low voice. A distant part of Thor's mind wonders what she is saying, but he sits on the other side of Steve. Perhaps he can help.

"What can I do?" he asks.

"Just wait ... I can't even see what did it yet. I think - oh." Banner pulls a long, jagged piece of metal out of the wound and drops it to one side.

"How the hell did he keep going that long?" Tony asks quietly.

"Give me your phone," Banner says, holding out a blood-slicked hand. He shines the torch at Steve's stomach. "It's not as bad as it looks," he tells them finally. "I'm no expert, and I'm not saying he'll live, but I don't think anything major was pierced and look - he's waking up again. It was probably just the shock that knocked him out. Here - " he rips off his sweater and hands it to Thor - "put pressure on it. Not too hard. Just to stop the bleeding."

Thor obeys, looking at the others as he does so. Tony is angrily trying to turn his phone on. Natalie keeps touching her ear as she talks to Clint. They are all trying to ignore the half buried dead body by the space where the door used to be (all that remained now was a sizeable mountain of rubble).

"Anyone else have a phone?" Tony asks hopefully.

They all shake their heads but Thor, who holds up his, the torch glowing. "I have no signal."

"We're buried under a building, what do you expect?" Clint says harshly.

"Hey." Natalie slaps him. "They're trying, which is more than you."

"We should - uh," Bruce says awkwardly. "We should talk about something. Anything."

"Why?"

"Because we're trapped without food, water or a long term source of light and we'll probably be here for days, so we should take our mind off that fact."

"We could sleep," Tony pipes up hopefully.

Bruce shoots him a withering look. "Yes, wonderful idea. Especially for the guy with the stab wound, the one who can barely breathe and Natalie over here who has a concussion."

"I don't have a concussion," says Natalie.

"People who test themselves for concussions are my least favourite kinds of people," Tony says.

"Good thing I got Clint to test me, then, isn't it?" Her voice is dangerously quiet.

"Hey." Thor steps between them. "If we're going to die down here, we should at least do it on good terms."

Clint laughs and begins on another coughing fit. Natalie ignores him and glares at Tony.

" _Guys_." Bruce, breathing heavily, turns to face them. " _Calm down._ "

"Are you okay, Mr Banner?" Thor asks him.

"It's _Doctor_. I am a doctor."

"Okay," Natalie soothes, standing up and moving over to him. A good half of her face is covered in blood by now, but the bleeding is slowing. She wipes it with her hand, or as much as she can. Presumably she didn't want to pull the skin too hard and irritate the cut further before, but now as it begins to clot she feels more secure.

Clearly she sensed a storm on its way, because she steps back easily when he lashes out, as if she planned for it. "Hey, we're not here to hurt you. Just take a deep - "

He lashes out again, clumsily, and she dodges it with more ease than Thor is entirely sure is possible. "Deep breath," she repeats.

"Get away from me," he snarls.

She holds up her hands and backs away. Banner retreats into a corner.

"You know what?" Tony says too loudly. "I'm going to start digging." He marches over to the rubble and grabs a piece, throwing it to the side."

"Don't, man," Clint says tiredly. "You don't know how stable it is. You could make the whole thing collapse."

"It's better than sitting here waiting to die," he said defensively.

"But not better than deciding to put yourself out of your own misery this early on. The entire bank could have fallen on here for all we know. You'd just be filling this room up with bits of brick and getting no closer to a way out. Better to sit here."

Clint starts wheezing and closes his eyes.

Thor wonders if this happens every day in America. It was far more interesting than the place where he grew up, that was for sure; of course, it wasn't difficult to be more interesting than a house in the middle of a large forest with five small cabins as the only civilisation for twenty miles. Twenty miles away lived the owners of another large house surrounded by small cabins. Up until recently, they had been on good terms with the owners.

Unfortunately, a boy from the other house (Jotunheim, the house was called) stole something of Thor's. So Thor and his brother went to teach him a lesson.

Then they inadvertently started a war between the two families, and Thor's father sent him away. To a different country.

It might as well be a different world, because Thor is seldom if ever in a room with this many people at once, and he doesn't quite know how to act.

Banner, sat in one corner with his head on his knees, is taking deep, shaking breaths, calming himself down.

Tony is wandering around, opening various steel drawers and looking at their contents. Thor has a niggling suspicion that they are all inventions of his.

Natalie's finger is now glued to her ear and she is talking urgently to Clint, except Clint isn't even listening - he's watching Tony.

Clint jumps every time someone says his friend's name, and then covers it up by coughing a little.

Steve, still lying on the floor, is staring into space, lost to the world. Something about the name Stark acted as a sort of trigger inside him.

Thor doesn't know all that much about other people, but these ones aren't just strangers.

He doesn't know one single thing about them.


	2. we are the warriors

**A/N:** I guess I'm back...

I'd just like to mention that I'll be using song lyrics as chapter titles and I don't own them. I won't do this for every chapter because I'm forgetful, but for the story as a whole this is my chapter title disclaimer. Play Guess the Song in the reviews if you're that way in line.

Many thanks to katiebug01410, AsgardianGrizzly and to the Guest who reviewed the last chapter. That was a huge help. Thanks also to those who followed and favourited this story.

(Fun fact: the method Bruce uses to calm himself down is actually genuine. You can look it up and everything.)

Enjoy and please review.

Thanks!

* * *

"Hey, Stark," Natasha croaks. "What vault number is this?"

He looks at her blankly. "I don't know. I just tell them my name and they take me down there."

She frowns. Of course it would have to be Stark's vault they're trapped inside. "We're in the vault registered to Stark. Negative on the number."

"Roger that," her controller says. Normally it would be considered fairly stupid to have agents on the scene - either the trapped assassins survive and check in at the designated point at the designated time, or they don't - but Romanoff and Barton are high-level, high-value agents and the agency _needs_ them to get out alive. They'll have people everywhere on the scene. And Coulson isn't the typical controller; he has a bond with Clint and Natasha that he isn't supposed to have. But of course, he is too well respected within the agency's ranks for anyone to try and talk to him about it.

They've now been trapped for six hours, and the near darkness, small space and dusty heat are suffocating. Not one person there thought to bring a bottle of water, and the smoke and dust in the vault anyway make their throats scratched and aching. Natasha can deal with hunger; she's been _trained_ to deal with hunger, and once went four days on a job without consuming anything but water. It's the thirst that's the problem. She knows how it happens.

The body starts to shut down. The subject cannot swallow safely. The kidneys are affected and begin to stop working. The blood can't filter properly. They could have hours. They could have days.

Nonetheless they will still die.

Banner speaks up. He is still in the corner, but he's looking at them now. He seems embarrassed. "I'm sorry about ... that. I have this problem, I guess. I get angry."

"We gathered," Tony smirks.

"I don't think it's funny, Stark," Steve hisses.

"I was experimenting with gamma radiation this one time," Banner continues. "And it went wrong. Badly wrong. I don't remember the details, but when I woke up in hospital, this started happening." He gestures uselessly. "When my heart rate goes up, I get angry. I sort of black out. Did I ... hit you?"

Natasha half-smiles at him. "No."

"Not for want of trying," mumbles Stark, but Bruce doesn't seem to hear.

"Sorry, whatever I did."

"It's okay."

Clint coughs. She turns to him and hoists him up as he slips down the wall slightly.

"Ow," he complains loudly.

"Come on, it isn't that bad," she says.

"How do you know?" he retorts, indignant. "You're not the one with several severely broken ribs."

"If it was really bad, you wouldn't be complaining because you wouldn't want me to be worrying about your imminent death. When it's not that bad, you just want me to feel sorry for you and recite every single thing I did wrong to make you feel better."

There is a chuckle on the other end of the line.

"Not true," Clint says, but he's grinning.

The others, however, are staring at them in alarm. "Does this sort of thing happen a lot, then?" Thor asks.

She realises her mistake almost immediately. Cover stories, she needs cover stories ...

"We're dancers," Clint says evenly, or as evenly as one can when one has broken ribs. "Ballroom dancers. Except we like to do ... risky stuff. Big jumps and lifts, you know ... stuff to make the crowd tense up. It gets pretty dangerous sometimes."

As far as improvised stories go, this one is pretty good. It explains almost everything.

"That doesn't explain why you tried to kill me when I touched your neck," Stark interjects.

 _Everything but that._

"Once we, uh, we got, uh, attacked. After a - performance. So we took basic self defence classes." He doesn't look entirely convinced. "And that turned into intermediate self defence. And after that I was enjoying kicking Clint's ass every week so we took advanced self defence classes as well."

"Say what you like about not being beaten up," Clint adds, "but it makes you paranoid."

His voice is harsh and dry, and far softer than usual; breathing, clearly, hurts him more than he is letting on. Natasha watches as he closes his eyes and leans his head against the wall. She forces down the pang of worry in her gut. He'll be fine. He always is.

"So, Natalie," Stark says conversationally. "You single?"

She glares at him.

"I guess not."

"Maybe she just doesn't want to sleep with someone like you, Stark," Clint growls, eyes still closed. " _I_ sure as hell wouldn't want to."

"Easy," says Bruce, trying to keep the peace.

There is a long but not necessarily unpleasant silence.

"Did you hear that?" asks Thor. He's been pacing for the past hour and they've all been doing their best to ignore him. Different people cope with trauma in different ways, and if this is his then they're not going to make him stop.

"Hear what?"

"I think I hear movement."

They all listen intently for a few seconds, and sure enough there is a fair amount of scraping. And banging. A whole lot of banging. Natasha feels like she can breathe again for the first time since the bank exploded.

A large piece of rubble is dislodged from the pile blocking the doorway and falls to the ground, inches from Steve, who does not react.

"Steve? You okay, buddy?" Bruce asks cautiously, to no response. "Steve." He's shaking him now. "Come on." Steve's face is ashen. His eyes are closed. "Someone help me move him."

Thor steps forward immediately and together they manage to drag him to the wall furthest from the danger zone.

"Statistically speaking, this is the point where we're most likely to die." Clint, apparently, is not as asleep as he pretends to be.

"Thanks," Tony hisses.

"Seriously. Everything's being moved around, so a ton of rock could cave into the vault and kill us. Alternatively, a load of dust could be knocked in and make the air too dirty to breathe, so we could all die of asphyxiation ... or some sort of chemical in the walls could - "

Natasha punches him on the arm, looking at the tense faces of the people around her. "Stop winding everyone up and go to sleep, you idiot."

"Ow," he says, his eyes flying open. "That hur - "

He is interrupted by the largest coughing fit yet. His entire body is moving, and the force of it pushes his back away from the wall and then smashes it back into it. His eyes are streaming. She doesn't think he can breathe.

"Clint," she shouts. "Breathe."

He carries on coughing. "Nat - " he chokes out. She leaps up, ready to yell at Banner to help her, but everything flips over and her vision blinks out.

The next thing she knows, she's lying on the floor with Coulson yelling in her ear and Banner next to her, examining the cut on her temple. Clint is breathing heavily (and wheezing as he does so) but thankfully not coughing any more. She's shivering - not enough for her teeth to chatter, but enough to not feel comfortable sitting up just yet.

" _Natasha, can you hear me? Natasha. Natasha. Black Widow! Answer m..._ " Coulson's voice fades out with the battery of her comms. unit.

" _Shit_ ," she says loudly.

Bruce draws his hand away, saying, "Sorry." Natasha dimly realises that he thinks he hurt her. She hadn't even noticed him poking her head injury.

"It's fine. Not you. Was I ... ?"

"Out long? You woke up about about three seconds after you hit the ground," Tony snorts. "So much for _no concussion_."

She's really starting to dislike him. "Do you know what happened?"

"I'm really not that kind of doctor," Bruce tells her. "Sorry. My best guess is that it was the head injury and blood loss, paired with the fact that you haven't moved in a while, so when you got up all the blood rushed to your head. Obviously panicking about Clint didn't really - "

"I don't faint," she says shortly.

"And I'm not a medical doctor, so don't take my word for it."

She crawls back to her place next to Clint. "Are you okay?"

"Just fine and dandy," he replies. "You?"

"Never better." She rests her head against his shoulder so nobody can hear what she's saying. "I lost communications with Coulson."

"Shit."

"Yeah." She closes her eyes. If Clint was more awake, he'd be telling her not to sleep, but she's pretty sure Tony's nearly asleep, Bruce is checking up on Steve, Thor doesn't look as though he or anyone he grew up around have ever needed medical attention and is back to pacing, and Natasha herself is in no position to care. If they're going to die down here, be it thirst, crushing or asphyxiation, she'd rather go in her sleep.

An hour ago it was stiflingly hot down here, but now the air - or perhaps the atmosphere - is icy. Everyone is tense.

Everyone is _afraid_.

She sleeps.

* * *

Bruce shakes Steve gently. Tony has fallen asleep too now, and Thor at least has sat down, his legs weakened by the explosion, the relentless pacing and the thirst. Clint and Natalie are both sleeping, and while Bruce isn't happy about Natalie sleeping with a concussion, he's more worried about Steve.

The soldier, or ex-soldier, whatever he is, is on the edge of consciousness, stirring weakly whenever Bruce tries to awaken him but seemingly unable to open his eyes and speak. The wound in his stomach is dressed and bound with both Bruce and Thor's sweaters, but from the looks of things it will easily become infected - the piece of metal was probably dirty to begin with, not to mention Steve's shirt, stuck to it, and the filthy, dust-coated makeshift bandages. Things might be different if they had a little water to wash or rinse it out with - but of course, they're all desperately thirsty and Bruce's insides are aching with hunger.

From above, the sounds of shifting rubble are getting closer and more recurrent. The pile in the middle of the floor is growing steadily closer and more hazardous. To begin with, the fear was a dull ache in Bruce's stomach. He was trapped. Now, panic is beginning to set in - a dull ringing in his ears from the constant noise, savage butterflies tearing at his gut and the brief moment of terror, the cold sweat beading on his brow, whenever another rock falls into their safe haven. It's a miracle he's only had one attack so far.

He hates this. Hates that just because he is a doctor, they all believe him to be a medical expert. Calling him to help a man with an impaling wound in a desperate situation is one thing, but he saw his own name on Natalie's lips when Clint started dying, heard Clint choke out _his_ name when she collapsed. Not Tony, the genius scientist who's probably read an encyclopaedia of medical science in his spare time. Of course it has to be Bruce.

"I have to pee," Tony says loudly, making Bruce jump. "Now."

"Can't you wait?" Bruce shoots back, exhausted.

"Yeah, well I thought _that_ two and a half hours ago. And then we heard them coming to save us, so I thought that would give me hope to carry on, and it did. Until two hours and fifteen minutes passed and they _still haven't rescued us and shit,_ I'm about to wet myself, guys."

"Dude, you're not pissing in here," Clint mumbles. "No _way_ are you pissing in here."

"Yeah, well, I don't exactly have a choice in the matter, do I? I have to - "

There is the largest crash yet and ten or so bricks tumble in, bringing with them a cloud of dust. Coughing madly, eyes streaming, Bruce looks around. Steve, worryingly, has not moved whatsoever. Natalie is coughing slightly but not awake, her body apparently taking over. Clint, through his own chokes, has her bent forward in his arms and is slapping her on the back, trying to clear the congestion. Thor seems remarkably unconcerned and is helping Tony, whose legs are crossed over in a fashion so incredible Bruce has to wonder how he managed it.

He will _not_ die like this.

He will not survive a bomb only to die anyway.

He will not be killed by the people saving him.

When the dust clear, he says, "We should shout."

"Why?" Thor looks blank.

"So they know we're here, Oh Noble God of Thunder," Tony snickers. "They could just be looking for bodies. They don't know we're down here."

As it turns out, people nicknamed after Norse Gods of thunder are incredibly good at shouting for help. Painfully good, in fact.

His heart is pounding. He doesn't know why he hasn't become angry yet but he tries his breathing exercises. Four seconds inhaling. Seven seconds holding his breath. Eight seconds exhaling. He read somewhere that this is supposed to calm you down, and placebo effect or not, it seems to really work on Bruce.

He feels himself begin to steady.

Tony, bladder forgotten, is yelling like he's on fire or something and even Clint has almost managed to join in, although it's more of a loud whisper than anything else.

Their attempts seem futile, however. More pieces of rock fall in, and more dust. They have almost no space now; the floor is littered with rubble and the air so thick with dust that Bruce can no longer see more than a metre in front of him. Tony's voice fades away, and Bruce stops too. There's no point.

Thor is the only thing to hold onto now, his bellows so loud that Bruce has to cover his ears.

He starts coughing again.

Suddenly the noise stops - not Thor's noise, but the sounds of machinery and shifting rock.

He can't find enough oxygen to care.

A chink of light shines through the dust. The light at the end of the tunnel. Crazy. Bruce didn't think he believed in that sort of thing, not after death. Only in hallucinations.

But then again, maybe he isn't dead quite yet, because he's still coughing, and there's not much point in finding oxygen when you're dead.

He tries to inhale again, and that's when Bruce finally blacks out.

* * *

Thor is fairly certain that he is the only one conscious at the moment. He's on a stretcher, being wheeled rapidly along a road to what he can only assume is medical help. It comes to his vague attention that he does not in fact much need medical help.

He sits up. "I know how to walk," he says hazily. This is not what he specifically intends to say, and the fact that he is fine is apparently lost in translation because the paramedic puts a firm hand on his chest and tries to push him down.

Problem is, Thor is in moderation stronger than the paramedic, and the paramedic does not like the fact that Thor is not lying down. "Sir, please lie down," says the paramedic. "We're trying to help you here. We gave you some morphine for your leg."

"What do you mean?" Thor tries to say, but it comes out more like, "What leg?"

"Sir, please lie down," the paramedic repeats. Thor does not like this paramedic.

It is now that he becomes acutely aware of a sickening pain in his right leg. He lets out a not inconspicuous shout of agony and suddenly is swarmed with more paramedics, shouting about more morphine and tranquilliser and _isn't ketamine what his father gave to that horse?_

Thor doesn't remember very much at all after that.


	3. who has lost (and who has won?)

**A/N:** Me again. It is LadyMorganaPendragon, but I changed my username because it's a bit of a mouthful and I don't even really watch _Merlin_ any more, so ...

This chapter is kind of long and rambly and uneventful, but stuff should start happening soon.

Many thanks to Cottonballpoofs and katiebug0410 for taking the time to leave a review, and to those who followed and favourited this story.

Review if you want to make me happy :3

Enjoy!

* * *

 _Beep._ _Beep. Beep._

 _It is the typical waking-up-in-hospital scene, the blurred vision, the white lights, the nurse watching him. "Good afternoon, Captain Rogers," she says. She is beautiful and the whole thing is far too surreal. He blinks fuzzily. He does not know who Captain Rogers is._

 _"Where am I?" he asks quietly, but his throat is so dry it comes out too soft to hear. Smiling gently, she passes him a cup of water. He nods his thanks and tries to sit up._

 _This is his first indication of something wrong. Before he had felt stiff, a little achy, perhaps, but warm and comfortable. When he shifts his weight, pain sears through his head and back. Groaning, he slumps back onto the bed, shivering, nauseous. He thinks he is going to be sick but cannot form a coherent sentence to explain this to the nurse. "Try not to move," she says. "Here. Have a drink."_

 _His eyes close in resignation to the humiliation of having somebody feed him water. He attempts to lift his arm but, exhausted from its ordeal of supporting half his body weight for a split second, it merely twitches feebly and stays at his side, limp, heavy and aching._

 _The memories will flood back to him in a moment. Where he is, what happened ..._

 _Who he is._

 _What is his name? How old is he? Where did he grow up?_

 _Panic rises in his throat._

 _"I don't know who I am!" he shouts, grabbing the nurse's wrist. She turns back to him in surprise. "I don't - I don't remember anything ... please, help me ... "_

 _"Let me find a doctor," she says, and the forced control in the tone of her voice, the false certainty that is too perfect to be real, makes fear spread further up his body. His hands, so devoid of energy, are shaking._

 _"Please," he says hoarsely._

 _She is already leaving the room. He rips out the tubs connected to his arm, scared beyond measure. Blood trickles towards his hand and he feels dizzy, but perhaps this is just the toll of the excruciating pain coursing through him. It is blinding. He does not understand how he is still walking, but there are other things he does not understand. More important things he does not understand._

 _He stumbles into the hallway, ignoring the frenzied alarms coming from inside his room and the looks of horror from people stepping out of other wards. "Somebody, please help me," he calls, but his stumble is by now more of a stagger and a doctor is running towards him._

 _"Captain Rogers, I need you to get back into your bed," the doctor says calmly, perfectly composed._

 _"I don't know who Captain Rogers is!" he shouts._

 _The doctor blinks at him._

 _"Please come back to your bed," he says, taking him by the arm and leading him back to the room. Its white walls and ceiling and sheets and machines are beginning to make him feel sick._

 _His knees buckle just before he reaches the bed and the doctor manages to catch him and manoeuvre him onto it. The pain is so intense he can barely even keep his eyes open._

 _"I'm going to give you some morphine, sir," the doctor says, apparently being careful not to use any names. "It should help you with the pain, but you will probably go to sleep. Is that okay?"_

 _He is hurting so badly that he can only nod._

* * *

Tony blinks awake uneasily. He can only assume that he is not dead, because he knows the smell of hospitals and this is most certainly the smell of hospitals. And thus, unless he is very much mistaken, he is in a hospital. More specifically he is in a hospital bed. And why would he be in a hospital bed if he was dead?

After this complicated deduction is complete, he feels slightly more awake than he did previously, and rolls over.

He sees four beds, all occupied. The first contains Thor, who is sleeping soundly but also apparently strapped down, for reasons unbeknownst to Tony at this point in time. The second contains Clint, also asleep, but propped up on a considerable amount of thin hospital cushions (Tony read somewhere that you're meant to stay relatively upright when your ribs are broken). Third is Natalie, sat up, reading some sort of magazine and listening to music through earphones, oblivious to his eyes on her. Finally lies Bruce, stirring slightly and presumably about to wake up.

Tony cannot help but notice the absence of Steve. While he didn't have much time to get to know the guy, he seemed pretty nice - if a little too _wonderful and perfect_ for his liking. When one meets somebody like that, it is difficult not to find a physical or mental flaw, and the harder it is to find one, the harder it is to fully like and trust them. Banner's, for example, is the anger issues. Rushman's is that she doesn't particularly seem to like any of them. Thor's is his underlying self-righteousness (not that it's entirely his fault; someone who is brought up nicknamed Thor is going to have a hard time not trying to rise to their namesake). Barron ... well, his eyebrows are pretty blond. Tony doesn't really know him well enough to think of anything else yet.

(Tony occasionally tries to count his own flaws, and is liable to find many - not a fact he likes to advertise. Of course, at other points - like now - they all seem to mysteriously melt away. It's strange how one suddenly seems so damaged when one is drunk. Not that Tony often gets drunk. It only happens at parties.)

Bruce groans and opens his eyes.

"Well, look who isn't dead either," Tony says cheerfully.

Natalie looks up at him for a second, and then Tony. Her eyes fall on Clint again, watching him breathe, and then return to her reading material.

Bruce sits up slowly, adjusts his pillows and anxiously scans the faces of each person in the room. "Where's Steve?" he asks.

"He's in the ICU." Natalie takes out the earphones. "They won't tell us much but I'm pretty sure he's okay."

"How do you know?"

"Heard them talking," she says vaguely, and Tony has the unnerving supsicion that she has been out of her bed and walking around the hospital before she was even supposed to be awake. "Did you know that you produce enough saliva in your lifetime to fill a swimming pool?"

"I did. What are you reading?"

She shrugs. "The title kinda got lost behind the accusations of Scarlett having an affair and Amber's top fifty fitness tips."

"How long have you been awake?" asks Bruce. "And how long have we been asleep?"

"I've been awake about four hours. You guys slept about twelve. I tried to go back to sleep but they wouldn't let me. Concussions and sleep aren't meant to mix. Ever. On pain of coma."

"Neither are concussions and idiots who try to fall asleep with them," Tony grumbles. She throws her magazine at his head.

"Yes, well, most people find it hard to think rationally when they've been hit in the head so hard that _their brain moves around in their skull_."

The accuracy and power behind the throw are a little too good for Tony's liking, so he takes the hint and shuts up.

Thor, on the bed next to him, opens his eyes and tries to move his hands. "Why am I restrained?" he asks, bewildered and straining against the straps keeping his hands tied to either side of the bed. Tony looks at the thin hospital gown he is wearing, and then at his own. It has purple flowers on it. The only person _not_ wearing one is Natalie, who is dressed in a loose t-shirt and yoga pants.

"Apparently you kept trying to get up and move around," Natalie says. "Only a brick fell on your leg and you're not supposed to put weight on it, and you're resistant to most sedatives, so they just pumped you full of drugs and tied you down."

They all stare at her.

"Well, I'm guessing the last bit's what happened," she clarifies. "They didn't actually tell me that because it's against hospital policy."

Again, her eyes travel to Clint, who has not moved. "Why isn't he awake?" Bruce asks gently.

She laughs humorlessly. "Bastard went and gave himself a chest infection from not breathing properly. All the dust in the air got everywhere and he couldn't get it out, I guess. He's better now, but he still has a slight fever and they've got him on a load of meds. He'll wake up in a few hours, probably, but the best thing he can do now now is rest."

With a loud grunt, Thor breaks his wrists free of their straps and sits up, looking smug.

"How come you don't get the outfit?" is Tony's next question.

"What is this, some kind of pop quiz? Last time they put me in a hospital gown I broke a doctor's arm and knocked another one out for two hours. I don't like hospital gowns. Clint will have a fit when he wakes up and finds that they let me wear clothes but not him."

"How did they know, though? Weren't you unconscious?"

"I'm pretty sure there's something about it in my medical records."

The door opens and a man in a suit walks in. He hands a book to Natalie. "Thank you," she says. "You're amazing." He then proceeds to produce a box of chocolates and two bunches of flowers, one of which he placed at the end of her bed, the other at the end of Clint's.

"This is Phil," she says, without explaining further, and he offers her a chocolate. She takes one and then gestures that he should offer them to the others, which he does. Tony's is cheap and tastes of hospital gift shops.

A nurse walks in next and immediately starts checking Bruce's vitals. He watches her uneasily. "You're looking good," she says. "We'll keep you here overnight as a precaution, but then you're good to go."

She moves along the beds, muttering things to herself as she goes. When she reaches Thor, she frowns at the broken restraints and orders him not to get out of bed, and then moves on to Tony. "You look good too," she concludes. "You'll all be released tomorrow morning; Mr, um, Thor will need crutches, and Mr Barton will be staying for a couple more days because of his chest infection."

"Barton?" echoes Tony. "I'm pretty sure his name is _Barron_."

"It's Barron," Natalie says.

"It says on his chart - "

"His name is Barron," Phil says, and gives the nurse a nod that clearly communicates more than just _you're wrong_.

She nods and goes to leave the room. "Wait," says Bruce. "Tell us about Steve."

The nurse pauses. "I can't disclose - "

"Tell us," Natalie hisses through gritted teeth, and Tony wonders how a ballroom dancer can manage to sound quite so threatening.

At Phil's nod (who _is_ this guy?) she speaks. "Captain Rogers will be fine. The trauma to his stomach was not particularly significant; with immediate medical attention, he could have been on his feet within a few days. Of course, he was waiting a long time, and the cut became infected, which increased his recovery time. He was moved out of the ICU a couple of hours ago and will probably be released in a week or two, depending on how fast he recovers."

Captain. The guy was definitely in the military, but all that _apparently I was_ crap is messing with Tony's head. Has the guy lost his memory or something?

Still. He'll be fine. All of them will.

And there's something to say for that.

* * *

 _Steve's been doing pretty well._

 _A few days after he woke up, he started remembering bit and pieces about himself. Important things first: his name, where he grew up. Thanks to hours of therapy and even hypnotism, he is even beginning to remember the early years of his life; he knows, for example, that both his parents are dead, and remembers how they died. He remembers running round Brooklyn with his friend, Bucky. He remembers high school and that he didn't like fish but he does now, and he remembers signing up for the army. He also remembers how difficult it was to pass the medical exam, how much he went running and lifted weights._

 _The things he does not remember mostly consist of the last ten years of his life. Presumably he spent a long time in the army to be promoted to Captain, and he is told that he hit his head when a bomb went off nearby, which is what made him lose his memories._

 _Those years are a blank hole in his memory, just past his reach._

 _No matter how hard he tries, he cannot get to them._

* * *

"Natasha," Clint whines. If he's going to be in enough pain for her to be worried about overexerting himself then he might as well milk it for all he's worth.

"No," she says shortly, not looking up from the bunch of files in front of her.

"I can't reach the pile."

She picks up the stack and puts them on the floor behind her. "I guess you'll have to stand up and get them," she smirks.

"But - "

"The doctor said to keep moving around every once in a while. Now's your chance."

He sighs and retrieves the files. The first one is on _Agent Reginald Stevens,_ who is on disciplinary observance for ... well, the file is extensive and Clint can't quite be bothered to find out, but he's perfect. "Found one," he grins. "Not only will he have to spend a few weeks tailing somebody, but somebody else will have to spend a few weeks tailing _him_."

"You have a sick sense of humour," she says. "Have you even checked to see if he's good?"

"If he wasn't good, they would have sacked him. Instead they're taking the time to see if they _absolutely_ have to sack him."

Even Natasha can't argue with that logic.

The deal with Coulson was that they would both be given two weeks' paid medical leave if they could find a suitable replacement to finish their job. Apparently, their target had been classed as lower level risk than he had been originally, because Barton and Romanoff are some of the best the agency have. It would, of course, have only required one of them, but the two tend to stick together.

They are part of what is called the SHIELD program. It is designed for the best and only the best, assassin and covert operatives from all over the world. Usually their missions are solely assassinations of high-risk targets; lower level agents can do the rest. Occasionally they are called on surveillance tasks for targets with high security, such as the one they have just failed to complete.

Coulson walks in. "Hey, we found someone," Clint starts, but Coulson holds up a hand to stop him.

"There's been a change of plan," he says carefully. "We found intelligence suggesting that the bomb wasn't a random terrorist attack after all."

"Then what was it?" Natasha asks.

"An assassination attempt."

"An assassination attempt? How do you know?"

"Another bomb was set off in the hospital an hour after you left. It wasn't released to the public that you were gone."

Clint's heart skips a beat. "How many? How many dead?"

"Seventy three. It wasn't a big one - just targeted at the lower floors. The building's structure remained intact, and they managed to evacuate the patients higher up."

"And Rogers?"

"Survived. He was still in a medically induced coma for the whole thing, and there was no change to his condition."

They both breathe a sigh of relief. In the short time they have known him - and despite the fact that he was unconscious for most of the duration of it - Steve has become something akin to a friend.

"Who was the target? Stark?"

Coulson's voice is level but grave. "That's what we don't know. Stark is likely, but there's also both of you to consider. Rogers was a soldier; he's probably crossed a few people in his time. The accident that gave Banner his anger issues also killed a lot of people. Thor probably isn't an issue, but since we don't know much about his past we're putting him in protective custody with you."

"Protective custody? What the hell, Coulson? We can look after ourselves!"

"But you can't save everyone. Not from a bomb."

Natasha groans. "They all call me _Natalie_."

"That's because that's what you told them your name was!" Clint can't help but grin. "It's hardly their fault!"

"They've been told that you're government agents. I think you're in the clear to give them your real names."

She doesn't look convinced. "Where are we going?"

"There's a safe house in Alaska."

" _Alaska_?" Clint's words are laced with alarm. If they're sending them somewhere as far away as Alaska, they must deem the bomber a pretty serious threat. "Shit. Do we get paid?"

Natasha and Coulson both laugh. "Yes," says Coulson. "Since you'll be continuing your surveillance of Stark there, you will."


	4. we built this house with our hands

**A/N:** So I lied about the action. I'm sorry. I changed my plans. Next chapter, I promise.

Many thanks to Darth Becky 726, katiebug0410 and to the Guest who took the time to leave a review. Also thanks to the followers and favouriters.

Read, enjoy, and review review review! Who do you think the target is?

Thanks!

* * *

"There are two single rooms and two double rooms," the agent in charge tells them boredly. "Pick your own. An agent will bring supplies once a week - that's groceries, toiletries, mail, and anything within reason that you request. Keep the kitchen and bathrooms clean because you could be here a while."

He leaves. As far as welcomes go, this is not the best Steve has ever experienced, especially since he is in a wheelchair (a fact that their supervisor failed to acknowledge). The rule is no physical activity for at least a week, including walking. After that week, he is on bed rest but may get up in order to eat and use the bathroom. In a month he can slowly build up his exercise regime again, but only _slowly_ , or he'll make his condition worse.

The original disorientation and brief moment of panic he felt when he woke up was followed by a crushing sensation of relief to see the face of Bruce Banner in the chair next to his bed. Since his injury isn't particularly dangerous (apart from the infection he developed), Steve's doctors and the gorvernment agents in charge of his safety think it best that he be moved sooner rather than later; if the bomb wasn't targeted at him, which he thinks is certainly the most unlikely option, the killer may still intend to cover up loose ends and cover their tracks by killing them all. Somehow all of the information was leaked to the press, no doubt for copious amounts of money - but the location of the safe house is still, well, _safe_.

Steve can't imagine why anyone would bother coming out _here_ to kill six people, anyway. The house is drab and bleak against a drab, bleak backdrop. Even in summer it is almost subzero - but not quite: the grass has a somewhat greyish quality without snow and the only scenery for miles around is an icy black lake. It does not get dark but the light has a cold, watery quality to it. The house itself is painted white, but age has turned it slightly yellow. Its roof is dark and forbidding. The windows are framed by black wood.

Fortunately, outward appearances are often misleading, and the interior of the house is far better. The entire group stand in the hallway, which has a radiator on each wall, a carpet, and a carpeted staircase leading to the upper floor. Doorways line it, leading to a living room with several couches, a television, a sizeable bookcase and a roaring fire, a large bathroom (tiled but with underfloor heating, according to Clint, who read the house's plans) and an open kitchen/dining room with enough features to satisfy a fairly experienced chef.

"I'll take one of the single bedrooms," Natasha says, heading up the staircase with her small duffel bag of belongings. "Wouldn't want to get period blood on you guys or anything."

The men all stare at each other in uneasy silence, waiting for someone to make the first move. Then, all at once, they all start shouting the reasons why they should have the other single room. " _Guys_ ," Bruce says. "It should probably be Steve. He needs the space for ... everything."

"Nah, Steve needs constant supervision," Clint snorts. "Don't want to leave him alone if he needs the toilet."

They turn to look at Steve. "Um," he says, "I guess I can share with Bruce. If," he adds quickly. "If that's okay with you."

Bruce nods at him and looks slightly relieved. "That's fine."

"I don't really mind sharing," says Thor, who is reddening slightly. "If I'm not paying for accommodation better than what I had, an extra person is a small price."

Clint turns to Tony, who is no longer there. "Hey, where's - "

A door slams, followed by a loud and triumphant " _HA!_ "

"Guess I'm with you, big guy," Clint sighs, patting Thor on the arm. "Hey, Steve, how are you getting upstairs? Also, Thor, aren't you meant to be on crutches?"

Thor looks down at his leg and starts walking - not limping at all - towards Steve. "I didn't really want extra stuff to carry."

"Dude, you're meant to use them to _walk_."

To Steve's immense surprise, Thor grabs his wheelchair and starts up the stairs, taking them two at a time. "I heal fast," he grunts, and places the chair at the top.

Bruce pushes Steve into their room. Despite the two beds, it is spacious, with a desk, a window above each bed and a small table between them, which is perfect for all Steve's medications. The beds themselves are both singles but plush, with crisp white sheets covered in quilts, and numerous pillows. "Nice," he says appreciatively.

When he is next to the bed on the right, Steve stands up. He's been trying not to use too many painkillers because they mess with his head, but before he left the doctors pumped him full of them and he's still feeling their effects. His stomach barely hurts at all. He is, however, rather weaker than he imagined, and only manages a step before he half-collapses onto the bed, suppressing the gasp of pain primed to slip from his lips. Bruce is rushing over to him. Before he can help him in any way, Steve clambers up onto the rest of the bed, crawls under the covers and flips onto his back.

"You shouldn't have done that," Bruce frowns, and Steve is panting too hard to reply.

His fingers curl into fists to stop his hands from shaking.

* * *

The footage is terrible.

She's seen explosions before - God knows, she's seen enough - but not like this. The bank was ancient, and Natasha watches in horror as its three storeys crumble in on each other, people nearby leaping away as fast as their legs can take them, but not fast enough; dust, ash and an avalanche of rocks engulfed them one by one. There was no time to scream. Next comes the trickle of survivors, stumbling blindly away. Many barely make it ten metres before collapsing, the roots of dust hiding them from view. The camera angle changes and she sees the rubble, the bodies ... there are too many bodies to count. She shudders.

There were six survivors.

Two others got to the hospital but died in the secondary attack.

She looks at the stats. One hundred and twenty-seven dead in the bank. Seventy-three dead in the hospital.

Natasha wonders what it is like, to wake up one day and go to the bank and die. To be dead. Does it hurt? Do you know you're dying?

 _Shit_ , she types, because she can't think of anything else to say.

 _Yeah._ Coulson's reply is almost instantaneous.

 _Any update on the target?_

 _We still think Stark's the most likely. Anything on your end?_

 _Still looking._

 _Stay safe._

She closes her laptop with a snap. The others barely look up. "Monopoly!" Tony shouts gleefully.

"No," say Clint and Bruce in unison.

"Cluedo?"

"Natasha always takes it too seriously," Clint complains.

"That was one time. And I was on drugs."

He snorts quietly. "How about Scrabble?"

There are noises of general agreement (but for the silence from Thor's corner; apparently, he is not familiar with the rules or, in fact, the game itself) and they settle around the coffee table.

An hour later, Natasha, Clint and Thor have given up, and are sat back watching Bruce and Tony battle it out. Somehow, Tony has managed to create _edaphology_ , and Bruce appears unsure of the next move. "You can tell a lot about a person from their Scrabble words," Clint mutters.

"Bruce is choosing anything," Natasha whispered. "He just wants to win. But Stark is choosing the scientific words. Look at him. He could have made _rabbit_ , but he passed instead."

"He's trying to impress us."

This is indeed an interesting fact - Tony Stark, a billionaire scientist and businessman, is trying to impress a small group of people who barely know him and don't care in the slightest how smart he is. Psychologically, he must be trying, at least a little, to impress himself, to make himself feel good, to inspire awe in these people who he doesn't need to.

"Hmm." More loudly, she offers everyone coffee.

As her proposal is met with sleepy nods and _yes_ es, she stands and goes into the kitchen. They're all trying to impress each other, to be sociable and stay up late. Things will settle down in a few days.

She makes coffee for Steve as well, and goes upstairs when she has given the rest of the group theirs. He is dozing when she enters his room, but sits up and accepts the cup gratefully. She sits on Bruce's bed. "So what do I call you?" he asks. "Natasha? Natalie? Nat?"

"Any," she says. "But preferably not Natalie. I get confused."

He raises an eyebrow.

"Okay, not really," she admits. "But whatever. It's easiest to call me Nat, I guess."

"Sure."

She lasts seven and a half seconds. "So what's the deal? With your memories?"

Steve is quiet for a while, and before he has the chance to speak she tells him he doesn't have to answer. He does anyway. "I was a soldier. A captain, apparently. I've got some medals and stuff. I only remember flashes, though."

"You get flashbacks a lot? That stuff back in the vault, right?"

"Yeah. Anyway, what they told me is there was this bomb, and it was a dud. It landed smack bang in the middle of our camp, and didn't explode. We were the only people for miles, so some of us went to look at it, try to defuse it, you know ... it exploded. I got pretty banged up, but I was the only survivor."

"And you woke up in hospital with no memories?"

"Yeah. Gave the doctors quite a scare - burns, cuts and broken bones everywhere and I was stumbling around the wards, shouting and screaming." He smiles humourlessly. "I've had therapy, hypnotism ... I just can't remember the last ten years. It's like - like something really bad happened in those ten years, and my mind doesn't want me to go there."

"Do you want to go there?"

"Yes, but no." He does not elaborate and she does not push any further.

"You think you made enemies?"

"I was a _soldier_ , Nat. I made my living shooting people. Of course I made enemies."

Silence.

"I see what you're doing," he says slowly. "Trying to find out which of us was the target."

"No," she lies, but even the best trained liar in the world couldn't get out of this one.

"I get it. Government agent. You can't just snap out of it. You probably have controllers breathing down your neck. I'd - I'd just appreciate it if - "

"If what?"

"If I felt like I could trust you."

"You can trust me."

"You'd say that even if I couldn't."

She shrugs. "It's still true."

He looks as though he might fall asleep right there and then, so she gets up and leaves.

"I think it's Rogers," she tells Coulson, once she is safely in her room (poky and about the size of a storage closet, with a single bed, a tiny window, a desk crammed at one end and a wardrobe built into the wall). "Think about it. He lost his memories because of a bomb, a bomb that killed everyone but him ... what if someone wanted to finish the job? Finish it with another bomb?"

" _I don't know, Natasha ...our money's still on Stark._ "

"It's not Stark," she says with some confidence.

" _Oh?_ "

"We'd know if there was someone else following him. Trust me."

" _Keep looking_ ," Coulson says. " _And remember that it could still you one of you two. I'll call if we find anything new._ "

He hangs up and she stares at the phone in her hand. It has to be Rogers. It can't be Bruce; he's too nice. She can't see anyone wanting to kill Thor. Anyone wanting to kill her or Clint would do it with more style, and she's sure it isn't Stark. She would see another follower, no problem. She's been trained for this.

But there is a niggling feeling in the pit of her stomach. _Did_ she make a mistake? Did she and Clint both? Could they have prevented both the attacks?

Natasha isn't used to self-doubt, and she doesn't like it. Ever since childhood she has had purpose, confidence. She was taught to always know exactly where to go, what to do and how to do it. But joining the SHIELD program has led to work more difficult than she's ever had. There is no right and wrong - hell, there's barely even left and right. Nothing is black and white. It's an explosion of colour. Reds, purples, greens ... mostly reds, admittedly.

Her door swings open and slams shut. Clint lies on the bed next to her, jamming her awkwardly against the wall. "Why'd you leave?"

"I talked to Rogers."

"And?" He doesn't sound particularly interested.

"I think he's the target."

"Seriously? I was pretty sure it was ... oh, never mind."

"Who?"

"It doesn't matter. Hey, this room's tiny. How do you get dressed and stuff?"

"I don't know. I generally change when I'm _alone_."

If he hears the hint, he does not care, because he doesn't so much as twitch. "No kidding. Last time I walked in on you ... shit. That was nasty."

He didn't actually _see_ anything too bad - she was wearing underwear - but she still broke his nose so that his eyes were swollen shut for a couple of days. It isn't that she cares, particularly, about him seeing her naked (there have been a couple of unfortunate situations, however, such as the torturer in Alabama they failed to kill, and that time in Amsterdam ... but they don't talk about that one. She isn't even sure Clint remembers, he was so drugged up). It's more the idea of their friendship being broken. Clint and Natasha have a fantastic relationship. They're partners.

She knows what romantic involvement can do to a person.

So if there was anything sexual about their relationship, she'd have to break it off, and she doesn't want to do that. Clint is too good a friend to do that.

"That was your fault," she says cheerfully. "Don't walk in on naked women."

"You weren't even naked!" he protests.

"I was naked enough. You're married."

She feels bad for Laura. It must be awful knowing that your husband is in hiding from a terrorist. She's a great woman. Natasha first met her after a mission gone wrong when she had a stab wound in her thigh and Clint didn't know where else to go. Laura put down her newborn daughter, got out a first aid kit and stitched her up without so much as blinking.

Have Cooper and Lila even been told that their father might never come home?

"Doesn't feel like I'm married," says Clint grimly. "It's been four months."

"Seriously?"

"That's how long we've been on the Stark case."

"Have you been calling them?"

"Every night, but we're not allowed cell phones out here. Laura told them I'm going deep undercover. They still think their Dad's awesome, so I guess I'm safe for a while."

"But you're worried that one day it won't be cool any more."

"I'm worried that soon they'll be needing a dad."

Frown lines still etched on his brow, he gets up and leaves Natasha in peace.


	5. i'm starting to think i care

**A/N:** Hello my darlings. Sorry for the wait.

It'll probably be a while until the next update, too, so sorry about the cliffhanger. I'm very busy with various sporting arrangements at the moment, and all my time has gone.

Many thanks to katiebug0410, Minecraft Guardiansaiyan, Wolfsdrache, and to the Guest, who all took the time to leave reviews. Thanks also to the followers and to those who added this story to their favourites list.

Enjoy and please review!

Thanks!

* * *

 _Ten days later_

"I'm going running," Clint shouts at five in the morning, effectively waking up the whole house.

"Want breakfast?" Natasha yells back. Evidently this is some sort of routine. Tony hates routines. And people. And waking up. Who gets up at _five in the morning_ to go _running_?

"Save me something," he calls, thundering down the stairs. When the front door slams, there is a collective sigh of relief. Silence.

It lasts for all of ten seconds, when Thor suddenly decides to get up as well, and movement from Bruce and Steve's room suggests it might be time for some early morning painkillers.

 _Well, shit._

If this ends up happening every morning, Tony will be gone by the end of the week, bomb threat to his life or not. (And he's ninety-seven percent sure he _is_ the target - who else is it going to be?) He buries his head under the pillow and sleeps for fifteen more minutes, by which time the bathroom next door to him is in full use. "Fuck all of you," he grunts, dragging himself out of bed and ending up in a collapsed heap on the floor.

By the time he has managed to pick himself up and stagger into the kitchen, Bruce has made him a cup of coffee. He accepts it without any thanks, instead taking a sizeable gulp. "What the _hell_ , Bruce!" he yelps, slamming the offensive mug on the table with more force than strictly necessary, scalding his own hand in the process. Muttering obscenities under his breath, he makes his way to the sink to run it under cold water. "What the hell did you _put_ in there?!"

"Boiling water," says Bruce, quite calmly, barely suppressing his laughter.

"Most people find it hot," Natasha adds with a grin.

Thor comes down next. "Well, this is early," he says. "What's for breakfast?"

"Whatever you make," Natasha retorts.

"I'll cook," says a voice from the doorway. They all turn.

"Steve!" Bruce says, jumping up and offering the man his chair. "You could have called for help!"

"Yeah, I didn't want to sound like an old guy. I'm good."

He certainly looks better. His cheeks have colour in them, and his eyes are brighter than when Tony last saw him - though this was, admittedly, four days ago. He sits easily. "Where's Clint?"

"Running," Natasha says. "Didn't you hear him this morning?"

"It's been an hour."

"He normally takes a while when he has something on his mind. Once he ran seventeen miles with no endurance training. He was in bed all of the next day, but he did manage to find a way to convict a serial killer."

"Great," Tony says. "Wow. Amazing."

"Do I detect sarcasm?" Bruce grins. "Or is it jealousy?"

Tony splutters. "I'm Tony Stark. Why the hell would I have any reason to be jealous of a guy like him?"

"And there we have a fine specimen of the _I'm too fabulous for all you peasants_ people. They're one of my favourites," Steve cuts in briskly.

Tony's eyes flash. He knows that sometimes he oversteps the line, but these people are supposed to be his friends - or at least allies in all of this. While he made a fleeting joke, that clearly nobody takes seriously anyway, some of the remarks he always seems to get back are more than icy.

"I'm going back to bed," he groans, closing his eyes. He has an idea for a new type of tranquilliser gun brewing in his mind, and he needs peace and quiet to think.

Four hours later, he has it. Sheets of paper are thrown at various places around the room (he made a target with Clint's face on it, revenge for his rude awakening) around the room, and he's just crumpling up another one when he realises that it has the right formula on it. Slowly, slowly, not daring to breathe, he unfolds it. " _Yes!_ " he shrieks, at a pitch he was previously unaware he was capable of. His phone, where's his phone ...

Crap. No external communications.

He finds a pot of pins and tacks the paper to his bedroom wall none the less. He'll do the specs for the gun itself later, but first, breakfast. It's now almost ten in the morning. His stomach is practically caving in.

He ambles back downstairs.

"Why the long faces?" he asks. They are sat around the kitchen table silently, drinking coffee with grim expressions.

"Clint," Natasha says, by way of explanation.

"Still not back?"

"Oh, yes, he's just in the shower," she snaps sarcastically.

"I'm sure he'll be fine, you said so yourself - "

"I'm going looking for him." She stands up.

"Natasha, don't," Thor says. "It's cold and we don't know he's in trouble."

"He'll die of exposure if he's stopped for too long," she says. "And we don't know he's _not_ in trouble, either."

This, as far as Tony can see, is a fairly valid point; he's out there with no phone or other way of communication, and the landscape is so monotonous that it would be all too easy to get lost. On the other hand, seventeen miles is a long way to go, and it's entirely plausible that he may still be out there without a care in the world.

"Give it another half hour," Bruce soothes. "I'm sure he's fine."

"Right." Her expression is unreadable.

"Seriously, though," Steve says uneasily. "What if he's broken his ankle or something? We should at least fan out for a mile or so and try to spot him."

" _You_ shouldn't be doing anything, Captain," frowns Thor. "Not with an injury like that."

"As if you're one to talk." Tony is quick on the uptake. "Mr. _I don't need a crutch for my injured leg_."

"Guys," Bruce says, dangerously close to what can only be an attack.

They all calm down slightly, for his sake. Tony is _not_ prepared for a full scale freak out.

"Let's just go," Natasha says, somewhat irritated, but at that moment the front door creaks open.

* * *

Clint wakes up with a pounding headache. It is not an average headache, that's for sure; it comes only to people who have seen and done to much to ever be able to think openly and innocently again. He knows Natasha gets them too, because you have to be driven by something terrible to do a circuit fitness session so intense it could probably kill someone less fit. Steve, too, from the state of their makeshift punching bag set up in the living room.

He prefers to run.

Something good always seems to come from the steady pounding of footsteps on the ground, something pure and whole. After a few miles one's body starts to work for itself, flying along, harsh breaths barely felt. The runner is left entirely to his or her own thoughts, or - if they prefer not to be - it is one of the rare occasions when they really can think nothing at all, focusing on breathing or strides or pain or not stopping ... he's always found it beautiful.

Just not quite as beautiful as the subsequent rush of endorphins that miraculously cure him every single time.

When he registers that it is early, but that the sun barely sets in the Alaskan summers, he decides to go now and save himself from the endless voice and words and memories that plague his worst days.

They knew what they were getting themselves into when they signed their respective contracts. They'd lost count of the agencies they'd worked for, and that this new one was a sort of jumble of several different ones was of little consequence. They called it the SHIELD program. A group of highly specified individuals: assassins, technicians, scientists ... it was estimated that there were about sixty of them in total.

But every job like Clint and Natasha's is going to have psychological drawbacks. In the films, they're always fine, the heroes or the super spies or whatever. But things like that don't just _go away_. In this line of business, right and wrong is a grey area. One doesn't look down the sights of one's gun at a man with his child and think, _this is wrong_. One looks and thinks, _I'm here for a reason. The government does not like this man._ One also often thinks, _if I don't do this I'll lose my job, only I know so many national secrets that I'm probably a threat to global security, so as soon as I'm out they'll have me partner put me down._

There are so many regrets and bad decisions and good decisions that are still bad and decisions Clint has never actually made that some days he can't deal with it. Of course, he has regular counselling - it's mandatory with this program - but it is largely a waste of time. There's little you can do but work around it, so that's what Clint does.

The fresh air is bracing, if not downright Baltic, so he sets off at a fairly moderate pace, music blaring in his headphones, into the distance. He has no idea where he is going, but if he keeps running in a straight enough line he won't get lost. His call sign is Hawkeye. (Natasha begs to differ; she prefers to affectionately call him _Pigeon_ from time to time.)

By the time he's run six miles, he's ready to turn back.

He slows, then stops, ready to catch a small breather before heading back to the house. His eyes are slightly hard to focus, and he feels a little dizzy. It's natural, but he sits down, just to be safe. The grass is pleasantly cool, in the same way that a freezer is until you get cold.

There is a sharp prick at the back of his neck. "Shit!" he yells, jumping upright, but everything is spinning. The ground tilts and he slams into it.

 _How could he have not noticed? He's trained for this sort of thing!_

Anger pulsates through him; he manages to drag himself into a slumped sitting position; he is grabbed roughly from behind; he swings a sluggish fist at his assailant, but it is slow, too slow ...

Clint is not fully aware of either losing or in fact regaining consciousness, but when his eyes refocus he is taped to a chair in a tent, shirtless and shoeless. A _tent_. Presumably his captors are in the middle of a financial crisis, and though this makes it a lot less difficult for him to escape, he almost regrets it, because he is _freezing_. As in, colder than being able to shiver. His hands and feet are numb.

This is unfortunate because, while he is practically Houdini in his ability to untie himself from anything, it pays to have fingers that work. He tries to will the life back into them and simultaneously fights the urge to vomit, no doubt a less than helpful side effect of whatever hellish concoction they brewed up and stabbed into Clint's neck. He takes a few deep breaths and listens to what is going on around him. It is quiet; there is the soft crackle of a fire, but not much else.

He stands up as best he can and then slams himself down again. Nothing happens, so he does it again. And again. On the sixth try, his backside, legs, tailbone and head aching, it breaks. How Natasha can do it so easily is beside him.

He still has splintered pieces of wood taped to his arms and legs but tears out of the tent anyway. His captors have, of course, heard him by now, and there is a great deal of shouting and gunfire. One of them manges to grab his arm but he yanks it away, the sharp, rugged edge of the wood ripping the skin of his arm like a knife. Even with adrenaline on his side, it hurts like a bitch. He's dizzy again - from the drugs or the cut, he's not sure, but his bare feet are slamming into the ground with more force than they should be able to bear and he doesn't have a clue where he is. The satellite phone he brought with him for emergencies is gone.

Still, a lesson from his SHIELD Academy days rings through his head. _Does anyone know what the best thing to do if you're compromised is?_ their instructor asked. The class was silent (humiliation was inevitable if ever somebody answered a question wrong). _Well, then,_ Weatherby spat. _You're all idiots. You knee them in the balls and run like fucking hell._

At least hell is hot. Clint could do with something to warm him up.

The men fall back, or so it seems, but he can hear things whistling past his ears, things that can only be more tranquilliser darts. _Interesting._ They evidently need him alive. But for what? They're in the middle of nowhere, on government-owned land ...

He runs.

At one point he turns. There is nobody behind him.

Some time later, he doubles over and vomits what is left of last night's dinner. This gives him an opportunity to catch a glimpse of his wounded arm, and it begins to sting. And then it begins to hurt like he has knives repeatedly stabbing it. He only feels more nauseous, and as the adrenaline wears off he gets up and runs further.

He runs two miles. Three.

Something is keeping him from from stopping.

 _Shit, is that the house?_

He could laugh out loud for joy or confusion or the sheer serendipity of the situation, but he doesn't. He slows down to a walk and limos towards the door, his aching, rubbed raw feet ready to drop him where he is.

He practically falls on top of the door handle, pushing down with all the force he has left, and it creaks open agonisingly slowly. "Tasha," he calls, collapsing onto the carpet of the hallway. "Come help."

Then he passes out.

It's only for a few seconds, but it feels like a lifetime. He dreams of something, something he can't quite put his finger on, with dark shapes and strange colours swirling round him, and confusion and loss and dizziness until he hears his partner's voice and surfaces back into reality again, gasping for air.

"Shit," he hears Tony say unhelpfully from a way off.

He's on his back. Natasha and Dr. Banner are knelt over him and two pairs of concerned eyes stare into his.

"Space," Clint croaks, and Nat jumps into action, shooing the rest of the group away and putting one of his arms around her shoulders. She helps him into the living room and lays him down on a couch.

"What happened?" she asks. Bruce brings in a first aid kit; she takes and sends him away, shutting the door behind him.

"Someone drugged me ... I woke up in a tent."

She raises an eyebrow. He shrugs.

"Got out and ran. They cut me. I got back to the house. I don't know how."

"Okay."

She starts removing the tape from his arms and legs and throwing the pieces of wooden chair onto the firewood pile. Then she opens the first aid kit. The first thing she pulls out is a syringe, and she pauses. "You want painkillers or not?"

Since he doesn't know exactly what drugs are in his system, he shakes his head. She walks over to the drinks cabinet and pulls out a bottle of vodka. He takes a swig and then hands it back to her.

She hands him a wad of fabric.

He bites down on it.

She puts his forearm above a large bowl and rinses it with alcohol.

He bites harder.

She starts to pick splinters out of the cut with tweezers.

This routine is so familiar to them that they need not talk; he knows what is coming and she knows what to do. There is something relaxing in it, something reassuring in knowing that no matter what cuts him, she'll always be there to stitch him up, and he'll always be there for her. Their silence is one of absolute trust.

Natasha is just about to pick up the needle when she pauses and sticks the tweezers deeper underneath his skin. He groans and it starts to bleed more. "Almost there," she hisses through gritted teeth, and pulls out something else.

It isn't a splinter.

They both stare as she drops a tracking chip onto the plate, and Clint notices for the first time that something is in his pocket.

He pulls it out.

It is almost certainly a small bomb.


End file.
